Doomed
by TsukiiS
Summary: If only her embrace could save him from falling prey to the destructive clutches of war…


Hungary hated to see Prussia that way—battered and bloody and slumped against the door. His uniform was dripping from the cold rain that tattered viciously against the window. He stood there trying to gain some composure before attempting to move. The pain was too much, it seemed, and all he could do was stand there helplessly. As if that sight wasn't torturous enough, what she saw in his eyes was far worse. She had spent endless hours of her life staring into those usual bright eyes, gleaming with resolute confidence. But right now, there was nothing in them. His eyes were lifeless in that moment, save for a tinge of despair, and the sight unnerved her.

Hungary knew this suffering was unavoidable. She had her share of wars, knew all too well of the immobilizing pain that ran through the course of a nation's veins when it came time for battle. She knew of—had experience first-hand—the pain that grew more and more unbearable as thousands of their people fell lifeless on the battlefield for the sake of their country's glory. She knew of the pain that ripped through a nation's skin every time territory was taken from their land; the pain was so terrifyingly real that it felt as if the flesh on their bones was stretching and cracking and tearing.

But she also knew when enough was enough.

And when he came in through the door, slumping against the door in a desperate effort to keep himself from stumbling onto the ground and failing to fight the surmounting pain that ran through his body—so evident in his jagged breaths—she knew he had done enough. He could barely keep himself from falling over, and his entire body was a mess of shivers. From fear or cold, she did not know. All she knew was that she hated to see Prussia that way. Sure, she found it annoying when he boasted about his military prowess—and the mighty European power had every right to boast about his country's military for it was the strongest on the continent, he would argue with a smirk—but she hated it more that he didn't give himself time to rest. She wished he would break away from his militaristic ways.

Her hands shook with an unwavering fear, and she placed the small candle she was holding on a nearby table, afraid that she would lose strength in her fingers and drop it. Her feet moved on their own accord, and before she had time to think, she wrapped her arms around Prussia's waist, lifting herself on her tiptoes and pressing her lips on the back of his neck—not kissing but caressing his tender skin with her lips—before resting her cheek against his back.

"Stop," was all she said, a silent whisper barely more audible than the crackling wick deteriorating beneath a wild flame. Her hands were over his heart, and through her hands, she could feel it beat faintly and unevenly. She could almost hear it through that sensation, and it sounded like it was slowly dying, just like the wick that cried out from under the burning flame. She felt a lump grow in her throat, and she suddenly felt very sick to her stomach.

Neither of them moved; they stood there in the dim room, lit only by the small candle. To her surprise, he didn't walk away or object to her plea. She was thankful that he was kind enough to spare her the pain of another argument defending his leader's decision to take him to war. As the flame danced and created a waltz of vibrant lights around them, Prussia placed his icy hands on hers and gave them a gentle squeeze.

He removed her arms from around him, but before she had the time to react, he turned around and leaned toward her, resting his forehead on her shoulder. He grabbed the back of her dress, suddenly feeling too weak to hold himself up. They slumped against the door, lowering to the floor. They crouched there in an awkward position, but neither of them found it uncomfortable, too lost in the euphoria of being in each other's presence to care. She wrapped her arms around him, running her fingers through his damp hair while holding him tightly against her chest.

Prussia's tense body relaxed in her gentle embrace, and he let himself enjoy the warmth that permeated his cold, scarred skin. And for one second—such a useless measurement of time when every second spent with Hungary felt more like a blissful eternity—he really wished the wars would end. What would the world be like if no one desired so much power, if hatred didn't exist, and peace was the weapon of choice? He had always been driven by battle—knew only of the wonderful glory that came from fighting. But if there were no more wars, then he wouldn't have to fight, and that meant that he'd be awakened every morning by the warmth of Hungary's body pressed against his and the sweet, comforting scent of her beautiful hair that he loved so much to run his fingers through.

But reality was far different from fantasy. Human nature would never change; the thought alone was laughable. He knew that he'd be back on the battlefield too soon for too long, and he resented the bastards that insisted on carrying on these pointless fights. He shuddered—his grip on her dress tightening until his palms grew numb—realizing the inevitable.

Soon, he would be waking up with the cold, wet air that carried the stench of death.

* * *

A/N: The inspiration for this story came from someone who wanted to see Hungary holding Prussia and Prussia tired or scared (or something to the like). Also, there is no historical context for this story.

Thanks for reading!


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